


Forgive, Forget, Repair, and Move On

by galoots



Category: Disney Duck Universe, Disney Ducks (Comics), DuckTales (Cartoon 2017)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Awkward Uncle Hugs, Della Duck (mentioned) - Freeform, Family Bonding, Hurt/Comfort, Reconciliation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-06
Updated: 2019-03-06
Packaged: 2019-11-12 16:03:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,187
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18013964
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/galoots/pseuds/galoots
Summary: Scrooge and Donald have a heartfelt conversation.





	1. Prologue

           Long after the kids had been shuffled off to bed and the adrenaline from the day’s adventure had subsided, Scrooge slumped forlornly in his armchair. He held a rapidly cooling cup of nutmeg tea in his hand and felt an empty feeling settling in his gut.

            It had been a few months since he’d met his grandnephews and reconnected with family he’d thought long ago lost. His family’s presence in his house—their presence in his _life_ —kindled a feeling of warmth inside of him. Something he’d thought he’d _long_ forgone. It was a familiar ache; one he’d never known quite how to express. And the awkward, halting motions of domesticity and cohabitation were as uncanny as they were intimate. It reminded him of the early days when he’d first adopted Donald and Della as his wards. He’d never been good with children. Well, he’d never really been a child himself. And having to deal with two juveniles, their grief still fresh from their parents passing and their desire for love so keen, so eager, so grasping… It was beyond his scope! How could he properly raise two children on his own? He was Scrooge McDuck: the richest duck in the world, an impressive title, one he prided himself on, but he was no _parent._ Certainly, no _father…_

            He understood numbers, figures, business deals, and cold, hard cash. What did he know of bedtimes? Of parent-teacher conferences? Of soothing a distraught child who, lost and afraid, sought solace in the night?

            Scrooge had faced many life-threatening situations over the years: the harsh terrain of the Klondike, the cold, slow process of digging through permafrost for gold, the machinations of his archenemies hellbent on his ruination, the pitfalls of a life devoted to adventure and myth-making. But, for the first time in his life, Scrooge had felt a deep, unsettling sensation of fear burgeon within him. A sensation that shook him to his very core. For once, he felt that the stakes had grown unbearably high and the fear that he might fail, that he might _be_ a failure crept up on him every time he looked into the innocent eyes of his niece and nephew.

            His relationship with Donald had never been ideal… But that was many years ago, before Della had—no. Don’t think about it. Better not to let his mind wander there and dwell further on a decades old wound. A constant reminder of how he failed her. How he failed them. Instead he turned his thoughts back to his new wards. He’d begun to know them as the individuals they were growing to be and he was growing to love them, but all the while Scrooge could feel the cold, palpable distance between him and Donald. He wanted to reach out, to say—what? _I’m sorry_? _Please don’t hate me? I’m sorry I—_ abandoned _you? Let you go? Out of my life, out of my head, out of my heart?_ No. These things couldn’t be said—shouldn’t even. And all the years of unsaid words, of _I love you_ ’s and _I’m so proud of you, of the person you’ve become,_ the _I’m sorry_ ’s and _I miss you_ ’s, they weighed down his tongue until it felt as heavy as lead.

            He’d let his pride justify decades of silence. It was too late to undo the pain he’d wrought. Yet, a small part of himself, the part he always silenced and repressed, whispered to him: _Who are you really protecting here? Your family or yourself?_

Movement outside his window caught his attention and shook Scrooge from his reverie. He rose from his chair to inspect the view of his yard that the bay window afforded him. It was Donald, attending to some late-night repairs to his houseboat. Scrooge watched him fondly; chuckling when Donald struck his thumb with a hammer while trying to hit a nail. Maybe it was his age, or because he’d grown sentimental over the years, or, God forbid, because he’d changed, but Scrooge decided to do something right there and then. Something drastic. Something he’d never done before.

            He would open up and talk to Donald.


	2. Ellipses; Minefields

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kind of short, transition chapter starring awkward attempts to make conversation and anxiety. Also it totally doesn’t make sense for Scrooge to get down to the boat that quick but I wanted to write that interaction. So I guess Scrooge can teleport now.

           “Phooey!” Donald stuck his sore thumb in his beak to quell the throbbing pain. _Of all the dunderheaded things to do…_ “Wait, the children are asleep! I can swear for real! Holy fu—”

            “Donald! Language!”

            Donald didn’t need to turn around to confirm the source of that Scottish brogue, but he swiveled to face his uncle anyway.

            “Bit late to be working on you boat, don’t you think?” asked Scrooge.

            Donald gave a noncommittal shrug picking up the hammer and nail he’d dropped when he struck himself. He expected Scrooge to leave and continue what he’d assumed was a late-night stroll around his property. Instead, Scrooge hovered awkwardly on the plank that lead up to Donald’s boat. A pregnant moment passed as Donald did his best to ignore Scrooge’s presence, but Scrooge remained where he was.

            “Do you… need something?” Donald asked. He shifted uncertainly to look up at his uncle. In place of the usual stalwart figure stood a slightly stooped old man who looked ready to bolt. Despite his age, Scrooge appeared to all the world like a scared little boy; an image that felt alien Donald. It made him uneasy in a way he couldn’t quite pin down. Scrooge never showed this kind of vulnerability to anyone, Scrooge _shouldn’t_ be capable of appearing this… small, this fragile. Their usual dynamic felt titled with Donald filling the role of the parent and Scrooge that of the child. The situation felt uncanny: familiar like when Donald caught his nephews doing something they shouldn’t be, yet equally eerie as it was Scrooge holding the burden of conspicuously masked guilt.

            “I thought we could…” mumbled Scrooge, “you know… Talk.”

            “Talk? What about?”

            “Oh well…” but nothing followed but another pause as Scrooge uncomfortably shuffled his cane from hand to hand. He cleared his throat before continuing but nothing came out. He stood in front of his nephew, beak agape, feeling utterly inept and pathetic, with the very last person he’d ever want to see him like this staring up at him. He thought the words would _come._ Scrooge imagined that all the right things to say would flow out effortless, elegant, eloquent. Yet, like a muscle that’s gone unused, Scrooge’s ability to communicate had atrophied and he strained to say anything at all.

            Desperate to free them both from the deep, screeching hell Donald now found himself in, he offered, “Do you want to come inside and sit down?”

            A brief flash of surprise registered on Scrooge’s face. Donald could relate. The words came as a shock even to himself.

            Scrooge sunk down into his nephew’s overstuffed, lumpy couch.

            “I made you some tea. Sleepytime Extra. It’s, uh, got valerian in it.” Donald ventured wondering what the hell he was saying. “It’s supposed to help you sleep. Heh, I mean its called Sleepytime so… you probably… guessed that.”

            “Thank you, nephew.” Scrooge replied as he took the mug Donald handed to him. “Does it actually work?”

            “No, that bear on the box is charmingly deceptive. I down the stuff when I can’t sleep but it never does the trick.”

            “Oh. That’s too bad.”

            Another silence settled in the air occasionally punctuated by the sound of the two ducks sipping their tea.

            Donald babbled, “Do you want some lemon pound cake? With your tea? I made it the other day.”

            The mention of pastries noticeably perked Scrooge up, so Donald made off to his kitchen to fetch it before Scrooge had finished nodding his head. Scrooge felt grateful for the chance to gather his wits about him. An honest conversation with his nephew was like navigating an active minefield. Blindfolded. After someone spun you in circles to make you dizzy. Neither of them were guaranteed to make it out unscathed, but the reassuring warmth of a mug of tea in his hand and the promise of Donald’s excellent baked goods gave Scrooge an unforeseen second wind.

            Meanwhile, Donald cut a thick wedge of pound cake for his uncle. He dawdled in his kitchen preferring its comforting solitude to the uncomfortable prospect of a one-on-one conversation with Scrooge. Usually he had the kids as a buffer, or Beakley, or Launchpad to alleviate the pressure. What does he even want to talk about? Oh God. What if he’s dying? What if he has cancer? Or Alzheimer’s? Or both! Take a breath. No use in working yourself up into a panic by jumping to conclusions. Plate in hand, Donald made his way back to the living. Enough dawdling, it was time to face this head-on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Psst. Hey kids, that bit at the end? That's what we in the biz call free indirect discourse.  
> I swear something actually happens next chapter.


	3. The First Few Hesitant Steps

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> HUGS HAPPEN  
> I took great pleasure in writing this awkward hug.

            Scrooge watched as Donald set the plate on the coffee table in front him; he detected a slight tremor in his nephew’s hand.  

            “Lad, I wanted to talk about—”

            “Are you dying?!” Despite his efforts to calm himself, Donald couldn’t help blurting out the anxieties that were bouncing around inside his head.

            “What? No, I’m not that old!”

            “Oh, thank God,” Donald heaved a sigh of relief, “I thought you were going to tell me that you had cancer. You definitely don’t, right?”

            Scrooge smiled a little in spite of himself. With his usual graceless aplomb, Donald had dissipated the charged atmosphere that had built up between them. “I can assure you that I’m not dying, nephew. Nor do I expect to anytime soon.” He couldn’t help but chuckle a bit, but couldn’t help but add, a tad hesitantly, “You were really worried about me?”

            His nephew shot him a half-angry and half-confused look. “Of course, I was! You show up at my door looking like something the cat dragged in and tell me you want to talk in the most cryptic fashion imaginable? What was I s’posed to think?!”

            Scrooge was taken aback; he hadn’t thought Donald would worry about him. He hadn’t thought that Donald ever spared a thought for him at all. “But—I don’t understand—don’t you hate me?”

            THUNK. And there went the other shoe. He hadn’t meant to say it, yet the words had escaped his beak before he could even register their meaning.

            “What?” Donald looked… hurt? Scrooge swallowed. He felt the anxiety rise inside him pushing his heart into his throat and making it difficult to speak. There was no retreat. He’d come here to accomplish something, and by God, he was going to see it through. Even if the words he spoke came out thick as molasses.

            “After everything that happened. After you left. After…” _Della._ It was the unspoken fissure between the two. He hadn’t just lost a niece that day though. “You were right to hate me. To leave.” He had to stop after that. It felt too raw, too real, to say more than that.

            Donald sighed. “I… was angry at you, Scrooge. For lying to me. And I did, well, blame you.”

            There it was. Confirmation of what Scrooge had always known to be true. His heart sank.

            “But, I never hated you. Not really. Not truly. I couldn’t—I,” Donald paused, his voice hitched, he continued but much softer than before, “I loved you too much.” Donald picked at the fraying armchair he sat in. Tears pricked his eyes. Damn it, why can’t I ever make it through anything without crying? He felt weak, he felt exposed. Crying wasn’t something he felt comfortable doing in front of his _therapist_ let alone his estranged uncle. He didn’t want to be seen like this. No, he didn’t want to be _seen._ He wished he could shrink down in size until he could hide between the fraying fibers of his armchair. Small and out of sight. “Is this what you wanted to talk about?”

            Scrooge couldn’t meet his nephew’s eyes. “Yes.”

            “Why? What’s the point?” He couldn’t help the bitter edge that worked its way into his voice. “Its been so long. So why go about dragging up the past after all this time?”

            “Because… it matters. How you felt. How you feel. And now that your… back, I thought—”

            “What? That things could go back to the way things used to be?”

            “Well…” Scrooge rubbed the back of his neck. “Couldn’t they?”

            “No, too much has changed. _I’ve_ changed, Scrooge. At least, I’ve tried to. Also, the way things used to be fucking _sucked_.”

            That stung. Scrooge knew things were never perfect, but he’d thought Donald enjoyed adventuring with him. “You used to like adventures,” he bit back.

            Donald’s eyes widened incredulously. “I’m not talking about the goddamn adventures, Scrooge! I’m talking about you! About how we treated each other!”

            “It—that—Donald, you know that’s just how our dynamic was! We give each other a hard time but—” Underneath all the bluster and teasing they loved each other. He knew that, right? He had to know that. Scrooge never said it, but he didn’t need to because it was just there. He stared into his nephew’s eyes hoping to see some hint of recognition or understanding. He saw tears. He saw pain.

            “Sometimes our dynamic sucks, Scrooge.” Donald sniffed and scrubbed at his eyes furiously. “Don’t deny it. You were happy I left. To have finally washed your hands of your lazy, good-for-nothing, jinx of a nephew.”

            “That’s not true!”

            “Then why didn’t you reach out to me? Ten years, Scrooge. Ten years we didn’t talk.”

            “I—I…” _I wanted to protect you._ From what? From me? _You must understand, Donald. I’m not a good person. I ruined everything._ But—if all that was true, if he was really protecting Donald from himself, then why did Donald look so hurt now? Scrooge saw the lies he crafted over the years to justify his selfish behavior crumble under the pressure of scrutiny. He didn’t want to get hurt, so he erected walls and shut people out. People that he loved. And in doing so he’d hurt them. Was there really a way back from all that?

            Scrooge looked at Donald—they’d both been hurt, both been abandoned, and they let that pain solidify into a shell to shield themselves from further harm. They took their pain and used it to justify hurting others. Maybe I’m searching for someone who doesn’t exist anymore. Maybe he never really knew Donald at all, but he _could—_ he’d just have to do the unthinkable first. Lay himself bare. Say the things he never knew how to say.

            “I’m sorry, Donald.”

            Donald looked taken aback. “What?”

            “I’m sorry.” Scrooge repeated, “For everything. For not being the father you needed. For Della. For never telling you—h-how much you mean to me, or how much I loved you—how much I still love you.” He was crying now and couldn’t stop it; the emotions he stifled for so long were all bubbling up at once. Donald wasn’t sure he’d ever seen Scrooge cry. Not even at his Ma’s funeral. Scrooge continued, “I got more of you than I ever deserved.”

            A beat. Then another. Donald looked as if he were mowing something over, weighing the scales of incertitude. He took a shaky breath in, “I’ve been thinking lately about, well, us. And maybe I shouldn’t have shut you out like that. I wanted to be mad. I wanted to be angry at you. That was easier to do when I didn’t have to see you.” He chuckled sadly, “I guess neither of us have been very good family for each other.” It hurt to say, to admit that kind of culpability when he’d always maintained that he was the victim, but it was true, wasn’t it?

            “I’ve missed you, Donald.”

            “Really?”

            “More than you could know.”

            “I’ve missed you too, Unk.”

            _Unk._ Donald hadn’t called him that in a long time. It made Scrooge want to laugh. It made him want to sob. Instead he wiped away the tears that tracked down his cheeks. A pressure that had grounded him for so long started to lift. Subtly, imperceptibly things shifted.

            Donald slid down in his chair and unto the floor. Sighing with relief, he started to laugh. “Yeesh. What the hell, Scrooge. You bust in at the wee hours of the morning and drop truth bombs on a guy like that? Coulda warned me at least. You’re so dramatic.

            Scrooge squawked indignantly, “No, I’m not! And please, laddie, language.”

            Half-slumped on his armchair and sitting on the floor, Donald felt like he’d just run a 5k. “You so are. Plus, I’m not a little kid anymore. I can swear if I like.”

            “Hmph. You used to be so cute—what happened?” Scrooge snarked. He felt more like himself than he had in years.

            “I’m still cute.” He chuckled.

            _You are._ Scrooge almost said it out loud but stopped himself. It was too soon for that. The tenuous bond they’d begun to construct couldn’t take that kind of strain just yet.

            “Hey.” Donald began, “Should we, like, hug or something?”

            The suggestion made Scrooge freeze like a deer in headlights. Donald cleared his throat, “No! Never mind, that was, uh, a stupid suggestion. Forget it.”

            To the surprise of both men, Scrooge stood up and moved over to where Donald sat on the floor. He self-consciously wrapped his arms around his nephew. _Jesus, he’s bad at giving hugs,_ Donald thought. The old man maintained a stiff upper body like he was worried of harming his physical integrity. It felt like hugging a plank of wood. _Still, he’ll get better at it,_ Donald mused, _we have plenty of time._ Donald returned the hug with a lifetime of warmth as he nestled his head in the crook of Scrooge’s neck. They stayed like that for a time until Scrooge gave Donald—one, two, three—pats on the back. They were so rote and performative that Donald had to bite back his laughter. Scrooge pulled away and stood up.

            “Yes, well. That was… nice. Let’s do it again sometime.”

            Leave it to Scrooge McDuck to treat a hug like a business transaction. Donald wanted so badly to give him grief for it. “I’ll have my people contact your people.”

            The old man sputtered a bit but didn’t snark back like Donald expected. Rather, Scrooge stood there flushing slightly but not making any moves to leave or reinstigate the hug. _Oh!_ “You still want to eat your cake, don’t you?” The slice of lemon pound cake had gone uneaten, forgotten in the midst of the emotional upheaval.

            “Yes. I would very much like to eat the cake still,” Scrooge admitted.

            “I’ll go make us some fresh tea—our have gone cold.”

            “Please tell me you are going to reuse these teabags.”

            Donald rolled his eyes. Somethings never changed. Scrooge was still Scrooge after all.

            The two of them sipped tea and ate cake as dawn broke over Duckburg. Things weren’t fixed between the two, but they had changed. Their shared wound had started to knit together with time and with work it could heal. It was something. It was a start.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WOOF. I hope I did their relationship justice in this chapter. Its so complex and multifaceted, and I really did not want to assign blame vis-a-vis their estrangement. To be honest, my bias leans towards favoring Donald's point of view but I tried to keep myself from letting that effect the work. 
> 
> I have to wake up stupid early tomorrow and I definitely should not have spent my evening doing this and not doing all my homework. 
> 
> I might do a sequel to this at some point. I dunno.

**Author's Note:**

> Scrooge McDuck: Tougher than the Toughies, Smartier than the Smarties, More emotionally repressed than you could possibly believe.


End file.
